Tempest
by XXOceanBlueXX
Summary: His memories may always be scattered to the wind. The scars would always be there and the haunting voices may not ever leave. But neither would she, and this was a promise to believe. One-shot /CatAnne/


**Alright, so here goes an attempt at our favorite ex-pirate! I do not own the story or the characters, I merely write to be better at it. And it's pretty fun. The rating is for safety, since it's somewhat violent. Warning: Spoilers! So, shall we continue? Yes, we shall.**

**OooOooO**

"_Like the wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we are, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment." - Harlan Ellison_

Before Cat realized who he was and how he came to be where he was at now, he would have flashes of something. Not much, really, a snippet of something that _could _have been but _maybe _wasn't.

Starting with the color red. He had many (fond? Affectionate? Good?) _warm _feelings to that color, particularly when it belonged in hair. Anne's hair reminded him of phantom flames, and that would sometimes spark some distant and loving person.

Cat soon realized that he was a risk taker, and that he was confident in taking such risks. He liked to challenge himself, would try things that were dangerous just to see if he could. Some invisible force seemed to drive him at this, and soon he became dangerous. Very dangerous.

"_Come on boy! Faster, more, Better! You think you can beat anyone like that?"_

Cat liked his name, because it seemed to fit in more ways than one. The cat o'nine tails were the first and main reason, followed by the fact that he was so agile. Cat's had nine lives, and similarly Cat seemed to beat the odds and live when he _should _have been dead. And finally, Cat's always found someway to land on their feet. Cat wasn't so sure about this one but he seemed to have some sort of luck that always helped him out.

That "luck" as he called it then, was a much greater and loving force.

The dreams were the most infuriating. He knew they were memories, they had to be because there was something extremely familiar about them. But when he woke up, they weren't there. Only broken pieces were left behind.

_Eyes that were ruthless, dark and cruel._

"_I love you, dear. You have no idea." Warm arms embracing him._

_A pain so fierce and burning in his back that he almost vomited. Flesh left his body and blood sprayed his face. "Where is it, boy? Where is it?" Cat almost couldn't hear over the sound the pain made, the drum beats in his ears and the color red._

Cat thought those eyes might be his, the warm arms were (red, he _loved _that flaming red) and he knew exactly what the last piece was from. A whipping that almost killed him.

The scars were still there. Once when he was alone he had taken his shirt off and looked at them in the mirror. He was rather surprised. He didn't know why, it wasn't as if he thought the blood was still there. They had sort of healed by that time, and were a mess of red slashes across his back and shoulders. His back would always be mangled like that, though the color would fade a little and eventually become an ugly and angry pink.

The funny thing about the scars, is when he saw the cat o'nine tails or a whipping scar that someone else had, his back would tingle/itch and he would stick his hand to his shoulder and scratch it.

Anne. At first he was attached to her because she was his rescuer (and the _hair_) but then it turned to friendship. Gradually, something else grew inside of him that made his throat close and chest feel like rocks were stuck in it. He knew what it was, and it was only a matter of time.

At first it was the _color _but now he just loved _her_.

Anne wasn't scared of his risks, his dare-devilish ways. Rather her impish eyes glowed and seemed to say _"Well, of course I'm coming along. There's no way you're leaving me out." _To her, his risks weren't "dangerous" they were "adventures."

Anne didn't believe that he was the cruel and merciless man he thought he was. Her eyes never clouded with doubt, never flashed with skepticism. She had his back, he could _count _on that. When all other things seemed hopeless he knew Anne was right beside him.

When Cat learned about his past he wondered why he had done so in the first place. Knowing was more burdensome then wondering, but he knew that if he had gone back the old Cat wouldn't have said so. _Griffon Lejon Thorne _was a scary person, who laughed at him with mockery at Cat's stupidity.

"_You and I are the same. You can't escape it, you're as blood thirsty as you ever were…"_

As it turned out, that Griffon Lejon Thorne had never existed at all.

Mirrors were something he used to loathe. They reflected back riddles and laughed at his ignorance. When he had mentioned something of the sort to Anne, she just looked at him in confused concern.

"I'm not sure I understand." She had remarked slowly, eyes purposefully probing his. "Are you sleeping okay?"

Asking Anne had been more terrifying then facing his father, more scary then almost being killed by the merchant. The only thing that had topped asking her had been asking permission from her _father._

She said _yes_ and he knew now that he never had to worry about his back _(that ugly, webbed back that had the angry lines) _being exposed because Anne had it. And when Anne did a job, she did it well.

She had been a little reluctant to ask him, he had noticed. What to call him.

"Should I call you Griffon…or do you want to be called Cat?"

"Cat will do nicely." He replied. _Griffon Lejon Thorne was whipped to death. He no longer has a place in this world._

Their first fight had been interesting, though that wouldn't have been the word he used at the tie. Anne was loud when she was angry. She yelled, stomped her feet and threw things. Cat was more silent and brooding. The difference merely added to the tension.

She threw a pot at his head that slammed into the wall noisily. Anne, rash and tempestuous Anne, couldn't easily hold her temper in.

But he loved her for it.

His memories were a tempest, but compared to her they were but a gentle rain.

Maybe his memories would always be scattered to the wind, would always be smashed in indecipherable little pieces. But it didn't matter. It was the memories he made _now_ that would last.

Besides, he still had that lovely color of _red_.

**OooOooO**

**There you have it. What do you think? Too long winded? Not concise enough? Please leave a review, it's what I use to get better!**


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